Name on a Bracelet
When I was in high school, 9/11 happened. I was in Mr. Teitz's Humanities class when it seemed the whole world stopped. Nothing was done. The televisions were on. People who had family members in New York City went through every mix of novinas possible. This was beyond awful. As the skyline of New York has never been the same, it is now a memorial similar to that of Pearl Harbor. As a New Yorker I have been down there a handful of times. I don't like the trip. I feel in a way I am playing on the graves, the remains if you will, of innocent people.
Two weeks after 9/11 was my seventeenth birthday. My brother Wendell got me this bracelet in a small plastic bag. He said that because everyone was feeling patriotic, this was the perfect gift. I asked him what it was. He said the ROTC man, a rare site at Brown, was giving them away. Wendell was nineteen to my seventeen. We were both brainless, and this was the most thoughtful we got. Remembering....I opened up the plastic baggy. It had a name on it. Inscribed on the copper bracelet was Antonio R. Sandoval, Marine, PFC, San Antonio, Texas. That is when my mother explained that this was a POW bracelet. I asked her what it was. She said a POW bracelet was something you wore when someone was POW/MIA and this was to let the soldier know someone cared about them back home. You were to wear this until they returned in person or otherwise. I say the word otherwise because my mother was quick to explain most of the time they were never found, or if they were they traveled home in a box. My mom told me she wore a POW/MIA bracelet and lost hers during swim practice. As far as she knew, her guy was never recovered.
I asked my mom if she thought Antonio R. Sandoval was still alive. For years there had been talk that there were still some POW/MIA vets left in the jungle by the selfish, rich, white US government to rot. We had arrogantly run into a mess we had no business in, and when agent orange failed we were running out. My mom, I remember, looked down. Like many in her generation she saw how Vietnam ripped families apart, either by having a teenage son killed or by having a son come back and be such a tortured mess that no psych med could cure him. Oh, and unlike World War I or II these men were not treated as heroes but killers. My mom just looked down, was silent for a minute and said, "Baby, he's probably dead. And his body is probably blown up. That's why they haven't found him."
I remember telling my mom that was horrible. My mom said, "Yeah, I can only imagine how heartbroken his poor mother is."
During that time in my hometown everyone was especially Patriotic. The attitude was very hawk-like. Several of my high school classmates wanted to enlist to "blow up some towel heads." While the educated people knew we had no business in Iraq, America was angry. Bush declared a war on terror. We wanted to see blood it seemed. Realistically, this ironically is turning into Vietnam minus the draft. But still, I was a tad angry myself. A tad angry people doing what they were supposed to do were wiped out by evil men with an agenda. So I wore the bracelet.
People thought it was pretty cool I was wearing a bracelet. They asked all sorts of questions about my adopted POW/MIA. I did the math because on the back of the bracelet it had his birthday. He was born March 4, 1956. He disappeared in May of 1975 in one of the final incidents of the war. This would have made him nineteen years old. He was my brother Wendell's age. Nineteen, a baby's brain and an adult body. A deadly combination of stupidity and ego. While you could make adult decisions, the state could stick a needle in your arm and you could die for your country. I thought about it. Wendell was nineteen. My brother had his moments. Not to mention I was seventeen. This kid probably went from talking about cars and girls to looking over his shoulder in the jungle, Dear God. Not that Private Sandoval was stupid, but looking back nineteen was a dangerous age. I am amazed I got out of that time in my life in one piece and I wasn't even in a war.
Ironically, when you see the picture of Iwo Jima, the men holding up the flag are probably eighteen or nineteen at most. Same with the guys in the trenches in Europe. Same with the guys who fought at Midway. Same with World War I. Same with the Civil War and the American Revolution. On one hand, while nineteen might be a nutty age, on the other hand, perhaps America doesnt give it's young people enough credit. Especially the men and women who serve. The poor thing was doing something big, something huge. He was just a kid. Sadly, so were many of his so called enemies. They were probably the same age. It's never the old men in tents that get killed. It's the young men viewed as in their pink and physical prime, but also disposable.
From what I gather, Sandoval was on a rescue mission to aid the troops USS Mayaguez over the waters in Cambodia when his helicopter was shot down. The body was never recovered. For a while, from what I read, that Cambodia possessed the remains of many servicemen and offered to return them, but because the US refused to recognize their government. I read that finally, in the year 2000, bone fragments from Private Sandoval were sent to San Antonio, Texas where he was from and buried in Sam Houston National Cemetery. I could only imagine the relief his family must have felt. While he was returned home, I still wore his name on my wrist in a patriotic gesture. At the time I wrote for my local hometown paper in the youth section. I published an article where I spoke of my adopted POW/MIA. My mother mentioned someday I needed to find his mother and perhaps send that to her. My mom knew, from mother to mother, she could appreciate it. I also think my mom empathized. When my brother didnt call home for two days she lost her mind. Imagine spending years not knowing where your child was.
I wore the bracelet for two more years until moving to New York. During an acting class, I was made to take my jewelry off and never put it back on. It was just easier. I don't know where the bracelet went, but I know I probably have it somewhere. Over time, my POW/MIA became a mere memory. I was busy with college, comedy, ventriloquism, writing, and chasing crazy men.
Then of course my early twenties were spent chasing stage time, and then I had adventures that were televised and then I wrote a book. For much of Bush's tenure many of my sentiments were openly anti-war. However, when I was on television I got fan mail from many of the troops. So even though I was against the war, I always, always support our soldiers no matter what.
I thought of Private Sandoval last week for some odd reason. Maybe it was Memorial Day. I googled him, not that there was supposed to be anything new. But sometimes I am wrong, and this was one of the cases that I was. There had been more remains identified from the USS Mayaguez mission, and the government had given them a burial of full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Private Sandoval joined the rest of his men on the mission and was given a heroes sendoff. The crazy thing was, it had happened that week. My mouth dropped open. What are the odds I google my POW/MIA out of the blue, and there are more updates on the dude. Wowsa.
I was glad for the dude. I also thought it was ironic a Spanish boy from San Antonio was buried in backyard of a former slave owner but eh, Robert E. Lee knew what it was to lose those he cared about to bullets. On the other hand, I was happy. I was happy for his family, but most importantly him. Not only could Private Sandoval rest, but now he knew his hard work and sacrifice were rewarded, and the right people were paying attention all along. Read about it here. http://wtkr.com/2013/05/16/marine-missing-from-vietnam-war-to-be-buried-at-arlington-with-crew/
I think in a way it's crazy I googled him, but maybe not. This past week there had been some discord in the land of the written word. I was taking myself way too seriously. I had become the center of my own universe. Maybe, just maybe, this was the spirit of a nineteen year old Marine who's name I had worn on my bracelet reminding me that yes, we can get what we want if we work hard and do the right thing. It will happen, just not on our clock sometimes. However, it is important to remember it will happen, so hang in there.
Or maybe it was just a twist of fate. Either way, I think if I am ever in DC I will take a trip to Arlington and pay him a visit. That is, if he isn't too busy being eternally young, driving fast cars, and having a hot babe next to him in heaven.
Finally got a hero's burial. RIP Dear Heart
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
Two weeks after 9/11 was my seventeenth birthday. My brother Wendell got me this bracelet in a small plastic bag. He said that because everyone was feeling patriotic, this was the perfect gift. I asked him what it was. He said the ROTC man, a rare site at Brown, was giving them away. Wendell was nineteen to my seventeen. We were both brainless, and this was the most thoughtful we got. Remembering....I opened up the plastic baggy. It had a name on it. Inscribed on the copper bracelet was Antonio R. Sandoval, Marine, PFC, San Antonio, Texas. That is when my mother explained that this was a POW bracelet. I asked her what it was. She said a POW bracelet was something you wore when someone was POW/MIA and this was to let the soldier know someone cared about them back home. You were to wear this until they returned in person or otherwise. I say the word otherwise because my mother was quick to explain most of the time they were never found, or if they were they traveled home in a box. My mom told me she wore a POW/MIA bracelet and lost hers during swim practice. As far as she knew, her guy was never recovered.
I asked my mom if she thought Antonio R. Sandoval was still alive. For years there had been talk that there were still some POW/MIA vets left in the jungle by the selfish, rich, white US government to rot. We had arrogantly run into a mess we had no business in, and when agent orange failed we were running out. My mom, I remember, looked down. Like many in her generation she saw how Vietnam ripped families apart, either by having a teenage son killed or by having a son come back and be such a tortured mess that no psych med could cure him. Oh, and unlike World War I or II these men were not treated as heroes but killers. My mom just looked down, was silent for a minute and said, "Baby, he's probably dead. And his body is probably blown up. That's why they haven't found him."
I remember telling my mom that was horrible. My mom said, "Yeah, I can only imagine how heartbroken his poor mother is."
During that time in my hometown everyone was especially Patriotic. The attitude was very hawk-like. Several of my high school classmates wanted to enlist to "blow up some towel heads." While the educated people knew we had no business in Iraq, America was angry. Bush declared a war on terror. We wanted to see blood it seemed. Realistically, this ironically is turning into Vietnam minus the draft. But still, I was a tad angry myself. A tad angry people doing what they were supposed to do were wiped out by evil men with an agenda. So I wore the bracelet.
People thought it was pretty cool I was wearing a bracelet. They asked all sorts of questions about my adopted POW/MIA. I did the math because on the back of the bracelet it had his birthday. He was born March 4, 1956. He disappeared in May of 1975 in one of the final incidents of the war. This would have made him nineteen years old. He was my brother Wendell's age. Nineteen, a baby's brain and an adult body. A deadly combination of stupidity and ego. While you could make adult decisions, the state could stick a needle in your arm and you could die for your country. I thought about it. Wendell was nineteen. My brother had his moments. Not to mention I was seventeen. This kid probably went from talking about cars and girls to looking over his shoulder in the jungle, Dear God. Not that Private Sandoval was stupid, but looking back nineteen was a dangerous age. I am amazed I got out of that time in my life in one piece and I wasn't even in a war.
Ironically, when you see the picture of Iwo Jima, the men holding up the flag are probably eighteen or nineteen at most. Same with the guys in the trenches in Europe. Same with the guys who fought at Midway. Same with World War I. Same with the Civil War and the American Revolution. On one hand, while nineteen might be a nutty age, on the other hand, perhaps America doesnt give it's young people enough credit. Especially the men and women who serve. The poor thing was doing something big, something huge. He was just a kid. Sadly, so were many of his so called enemies. They were probably the same age. It's never the old men in tents that get killed. It's the young men viewed as in their pink and physical prime, but also disposable.
From what I gather, Sandoval was on a rescue mission to aid the troops USS Mayaguez over the waters in Cambodia when his helicopter was shot down. The body was never recovered. For a while, from what I read, that Cambodia possessed the remains of many servicemen and offered to return them, but because the US refused to recognize their government. I read that finally, in the year 2000, bone fragments from Private Sandoval were sent to San Antonio, Texas where he was from and buried in Sam Houston National Cemetery. I could only imagine the relief his family must have felt. While he was returned home, I still wore his name on my wrist in a patriotic gesture. At the time I wrote for my local hometown paper in the youth section. I published an article where I spoke of my adopted POW/MIA. My mother mentioned someday I needed to find his mother and perhaps send that to her. My mom knew, from mother to mother, she could appreciate it. I also think my mom empathized. When my brother didnt call home for two days she lost her mind. Imagine spending years not knowing where your child was.
I wore the bracelet for two more years until moving to New York. During an acting class, I was made to take my jewelry off and never put it back on. It was just easier. I don't know where the bracelet went, but I know I probably have it somewhere. Over time, my POW/MIA became a mere memory. I was busy with college, comedy, ventriloquism, writing, and chasing crazy men.
Then of course my early twenties were spent chasing stage time, and then I had adventures that were televised and then I wrote a book. For much of Bush's tenure many of my sentiments were openly anti-war. However, when I was on television I got fan mail from many of the troops. So even though I was against the war, I always, always support our soldiers no matter what.
I thought of Private Sandoval last week for some odd reason. Maybe it was Memorial Day. I googled him, not that there was supposed to be anything new. But sometimes I am wrong, and this was one of the cases that I was. There had been more remains identified from the USS Mayaguez mission, and the government had given them a burial of full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Private Sandoval joined the rest of his men on the mission and was given a heroes sendoff. The crazy thing was, it had happened that week. My mouth dropped open. What are the odds I google my POW/MIA out of the blue, and there are more updates on the dude. Wowsa.
I was glad for the dude. I also thought it was ironic a Spanish boy from San Antonio was buried in backyard of a former slave owner but eh, Robert E. Lee knew what it was to lose those he cared about to bullets. On the other hand, I was happy. I was happy for his family, but most importantly him. Not only could Private Sandoval rest, but now he knew his hard work and sacrifice were rewarded, and the right people were paying attention all along. Read about it here. http://wtkr.com/2013/05/16/marine-missing-from-vietnam-war-to-be-buried-at-arlington-with-crew/
I think in a way it's crazy I googled him, but maybe not. This past week there had been some discord in the land of the written word. I was taking myself way too seriously. I had become the center of my own universe. Maybe, just maybe, this was the spirit of a nineteen year old Marine who's name I had worn on my bracelet reminding me that yes, we can get what we want if we work hard and do the right thing. It will happen, just not on our clock sometimes. However, it is important to remember it will happen, so hang in there.
Or maybe it was just a twist of fate. Either way, I think if I am ever in DC I will take a trip to Arlington and pay him a visit. That is, if he isn't too busy being eternally young, driving fast cars, and having a hot babe next to him in heaven.
Finally got a hero's burial. RIP Dear HeartLoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
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